The Covert Element

THE COVERT
ELEMENT

A James Becker Thriller

by

John L. Betcher

www.johnbetcher.com

BOOKS IN THE "BECK" SUSPENSE/THRILLER SERIES

The 19
^th
Element

The Missing Element

The Covert Element

Published by

John L. Betcher

Red Wing, Minnesota

www.johnbetcher.com

2011 - 2012

Copyright 2011 - 2012 by John L. Betcher

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,

may not be reproduced in any form

without permission from John L. Betcher.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real

persons or situations are coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1461084532

ISBN-10: 1461084539

PROLOGUE

Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, the Cali and Medellin
drug cartels ran a multi-billion dollar marijuana and cocaine
business from their fortress compounds in the mountain jungles of
Colombia. Cartel influence in their home country was complete.
Neither police nor government officials dared challenge them.
Outside Colombia, even the Italian Mafia took care not to invade
sales territories of the powerful South American cartels.

During the 1980s, all of that changed. The United States
declared war on the drug trade . . . and the DEA had the
Colombians directly in its sights.

As American military support for the Colombian Government
grew, the Calis and Medellins found themselves having to devote
ever increasing resources to dealing with matters at home. This left
the activities of their foreign partners largely unmonitored – a
situation they feared, but could do little about.

As the 1980s passed, the Calis and Medellins would eventually
taste defeat at the hands of the Americans – crumbling under
relentless military assaults by both Colombian and American
troops. But the decline of the Colombian drug lords gave birth to an
ascendance farther north. The era of the Mexican cartels had
arrived.

From humble beginnings as flunkies and mules for the
Colombians, the ambitious Mexicans built for themselves a drug
empire more lucrative, and a geographic influence more extensive,
than their South American predecessors.

The U.S. observed the developing Mexican threat . . . and in
fact, increased its efforts to curtail the drug trade flowing from
Mexico across America’s southern border. Other than the
occasional bust made at a border crossing, American efforts at
interdiction remained largely unsuccessful.

Unlike Colombia, Mexico had not yet developed the stomach
for fighting the powerful cartels. Since the United States found no
partner in pursuing the Mexican drug lords, its cross-border efforts
consisted mainly of isolated, clandestine missions of limited scope.
Although such attacks did inflict losses on the cartels, in the long
run, they would prove ineffective at deterring cartel expansion.

By the twenty-first century, Mexico’s drug problems had gotten
so bad that it had no choice but to join the fight. Unfortunately, it
was too late. The cartel forces had the Mexican national army out-manned and out-gunned.

Emboldened by their frequent victories over the
Federales
, the
cartels pressed on to the north, setting up drug operations in
Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

By now, the Americans knew they needed to take decisive
action, lest this bloody war be fought on home turf. But politics
between the United States and Mexico remained tenuous over
immigration issues. Cooperation between the two countries in
combating the drug threat faltered. The wheels of politics ground to
a halt.

Correctly assessing the weaknesses of their enemies, the cartels
continued their expansion farther into the American heartland.

Today, the battle still rages. With every passing week, new
battle lines are being drawn – inside Mexico, at the American
border, in the Arizona desert, and even in seemingly insulated
states in the U.S. north.

By 2010, the Mexican cartels were already supplying more than
ninety percent of the cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamine
sold in Minnesota. How long would it be before the cartels were not
only selling, but producing their illicit wares inside American
borders?

Maybe not as long as you think . . . .

CHAPTER ONE

August, 1985 – 25,000 feet above northeastern Mexico.

In the rear of the C-141 cargo jet, five servicemen sat strapped
onto wooden benches awaiting the order to jump. Their gear was
typical for this sort of mission – a HAHO parachute jump. High
altitude. High open.

Kevlar helmets fitted with OD oxygen systems would allow
them to breathe at the extreme altitude of their release. Insulated
jump suits would protect them from the -50 degree cold and 120-knot winds into which they would soon throw themselves. Under
the insulation, their uniforms were plain black – bearing no insignia
to reveal an affiliation of any kind.

Master Sergeant Juan Fuentes felt a particular unease as he
contemplated the mission. Under most circumstances, he would be
confident in his abilities, and those of his men, to carry out their
assignment. But this mission was different.

His operational orders had come down just ten hours earlier.
His team was expecting a training jump over Panama that day. But
an opportunity to take out a high-value target had presented.
Expediency was required. His team was best suited, so they had
drawn the assignment.

In his opinion, the plan was sound. And his men were all Army
Rangers like himself. They were squared-away soldiers . . . fully
capable of executing on their Ranger training. Still . . . he would
have preferred an opportunity for his team to simulate the
particulars of this attack before boarding the transport. That hadn’t
been possible.

The emergent circumstance that had required this rapid
deployment was a meeting of Mexican drug cartel leaders, to be
held at a certain secluded mountainside villa. Intel from a local
informer had been deemed reliable. The meeting had already
begun.

The target was located 400 kilometers northwest of Tampico in
Tamaulipas Province, Mexico. The villa compound had been carved
into the southeastern slope of a mountain in the
Sierra Madres
Oriental
– the geological backbone of northeastern Mexico.

Master Sergeant Fuentes’ orders included a notation that the
Mexican government had approved the mission. He should not
anticipate interference from the Mexican military.

Local Mexican authorities were another matter. The cartels
already owned many of them . . . their allegiances having been
acquired with cash, or coercion, or a combination of both. Any local
police forces he might encounter had to be considered "neutrals" at
best, and more likely, "hostiles."

Though Fuentes was an American citizen by birth, Spanish was
the language of his family and of his culture. His Mexican roots ran
deep. His sympathies lay with relatives in the Tampico area who
had suffered first hand the cruelty of the drug cartels. This would be
more than a mission for the Sergeant. This would be a crusade of
sorts . . . a strike against cartel oppression on behalf of the
overmatched Tampico citizenry.

Though he was an American soldier, Fuentes considered his
Ranger team a covert element in the larger conflict between the
Mexican people and the cartels. This was a war he knew he would
be fighting for a long time, whether under the American flag or not.

As the target site approached, the five team members donned
their helmets and oxygen masks, strapped night vision goggles
around their necks, and hung their rucksacks between their legs.
The huge, rear ramp of the C-141 slowly swung down to a horizontal
position.

The Jump Master radioed the team to get ready. A few seconds
later, a green light illuminated near the tail of the plane. Master
Sergeant Fuentes led and the rest of his team followed – each being
sucked from the ramp as he reached the airflow vortex in the
plane’s wake.

As he fell, Fuentes looked up and to the west to see if he could
catch a glimpse of the C-141 above him. Between the plane’s lack of
lights and the violent shaking of a 120-knot departure from the
huge transport, he wasn’t able to pick it out. He knew it was still
there, though. It would continue circling the drop zone at 25,000
feet, illuminating the DZ with infrared light until Fuentes’ team was
safely on the ground.

After a few moments, Fuentes’ lateral motion, and therefore, a
good deal of the air resistance that had buffeted him, subsided. Now
he focused on his wrist altimeter. He was in no rush to reach the
ground, so he fell in standard spread-eagle position. As the
altimeter approached 17,000 feet above sea level, he deployed his
chute, knowing that his team had done likewise a few seconds
earlier.

No longer descending at 120 knots, and at this lower altitude,
he was now able to remove the oxygen mask and strap on his Night
Observation Device – in this case, infrared goggles. Harnessing
NODs in the middle of a jump was not a routine maneuver. But
then, Special Forces were seldom requested to perform the routine.
Clear night-vision was necessary for this jump. Their DZ was small,
and the surrounding terrain hazardous.

The plan called for an approach toward the drop zone from the
west. The five paratroopers would drift with the gentle westerly
wind toward the DZ. With his rectangular parachute fully deployed,
Fuentes concentrated on maintaining his easterly heading until, at
about 15,000 feet, he could see the glow of the DZ’s IR reflection on
the mountainside.

 "Carpet in sight. Heading North 78 degrees East. Report."
Fuentes’ English had never been great. His speech was heavily laced
with a Mexican accent.

"Mongoose, this is Mud Slinger. I’ve got it."

"Mongoose, this is Trophy Wife. I have a visual."

The remaining team members confirmed their sightings of the
DZ – a small mesa carved into the crumbling shale of the
mountainside. No one had had any problems with chutes, and
everyone’s night vision was online. Fuentes took a cleansing breath.
He had envisioned his confrontation with the cartels often. It would
end in bloody, hand to hand combat –
mano a mano
. This precision
military assault was never what he had in mind.